


Swallow your pride, you will not die, it's not poison

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 60s beatles, Angst, Cheating, M/M, McLennon, Mild Smut, Occasional slurs, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Swearing, john can't handle his feelings, like a lot of angst because apparently thats all i write, with lots of references to hamburg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22266736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He doesn’t know what to do with this love - it burns too brightly. It’s the sun, and he is Icarus, flying with his wings made of wax. He wants to fly directly into it, but the closer he gets, the more his wings melt.The Beatles are quickly rising to fame, but even with the world at his feet, John struggles to deal with his feelings, his past, and his future.
Relationships: Cynthia Lennon/John Lennon, John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New fic babeys!! This one is sort of inspired by/continues on from two of my other fics (don't carry the world upon your shoulders + and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make). It's not a sequel or anything but uses some of the ideas/references some events that happened in those two fics, so if you want to feel free to give them a read. Anyways I sincerely hope you enjoy this - kudos and comments are appreciated as always. Happy reading :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New fic babeys!! This one is sort of inspired by/continues on from two of my other fics (don't carry the world upon your shoulders + and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make). It's not a sequel or anything but uses some of the ideas/references some events that happened in those two fics, so if you want to feel free to give them a read. Anyways I sincerely hope you enjoy this - kudos and comments are appreciated as always. Happy reading :)

After months of working and recording and performing, The Beatles have been granted a rare break. They’re tired and restless, itching for ordinariness and fun.

“We should have a get-together, just us and some friends from back home. We can do it at my flat.” Ringo suggests as they drive back from the day’s recording session. Eager to unwind, they all agree, which is how they end up squished into Ringo’s tiny flat with 20 other people on a Saturday evening.

Even John, who can’t sit still, whose head is full of ideas and who needs his life to constantly be in motion, relishes the peaceful atmosphere. Everyone lounges around with drinks and cigarettes, exchanging idle gossip and telling funny stories.

There's no pressure. No conflict. No one asks for an autograph. No one tries to take a picture of him. It's perfect.

Swaying and cheeks flushed, John collapses onto the floor in front of a circle that has formed around the living room table. “What’re we doing then?” His eyes sparkle, the glint of mischief clear. He hooks an arm around Cynthia and pulls her in protectively. She giggles. “We’re playing spin the bottle. Wanna join?”

“M’not twelve.” He scoffs, but stays put anyway. She recounts all the kisses and the drama of the party to him as the bottle is passed around to the next person to spin. It’s Paul, tipsy and grinning like an idiot. All eyes fixate on the empty beer bottle as it spins and wobbles around. “Who’s it gonna be, Paulie?” John teases.

It spins to a halt. It’s him. The group bursts into laughter. Paul smiles sheepishly, grabbing the bottle back. “Uh… I guess I better spin it again?”

Everyone protests - ‘ _No, it’s the rules! You have to!_ ’. John just laughs it off, leans over and gives Paul a quick peck on the cheek - he gets a couple of cheers out of that. George raises an eyebrow. John swears he's able to communicate a million things with a single facial expression.

“Don’t worry George, you’ll get one too.” He quips as he takes a turn to spin the bottle himself. “John Lennon; second best kisser in the world.”

“Who’s the first best?” Cynthia jokes. He chuckles.

“You are, of course.”

***

They drive home from the party mostly in silence. The radio plays some new tune (Cynthia always insists on playing the radio in case a Beatles song comes on). Usually Cynthia talks all the way through the car ride. She always has some news or stories to tell. Tonight she stays silent, staring wistfully out the window.

John finally breaks the quiet. It makes him antsy, even though he likes to complain that Cynthia talks his ear off. “What’s wrong?”

“Tonight… how come- how come you kiss Paul… differently? Differently to how you kiss me…” She whispers. She looks as though she’s confessing to a murder; her face turning white as she eyes John nervously.

John feels his heart start to beat faster. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes stay glued to the floor, refusing to meet his gaze. “I mean… when you kissed Paul tonight- it’s like he was the only one… the only one you could see. Like… um…” Her words hang in the air. It’s obvious what she wants to say - _like you’re more than just friends_ \- but there’s no way she can say that.

John feels his defence mode set in, hundreds of excuses at the ready so he won’t ever have to admit it. _We’re just friends, just joking around, Paul’s like a brother to me, how could you even say that, what are you implying…_

“Cyn, you can’t _seriously_ believe- Paul’s my best mate, but I’d never… Look, we’re all a bit drunk and we were all just being stupid. I love him like a brother. Nothing less, nothing more.” He caresses her cheek, lifting her face so their eyes finally meet. “You’re my one and only, yeah? I love you more than anything.”

A smile creeps across her face. “I’m sorry… I- I’m being ridiculous. It must just be the drinks talking.” John kisses her long and hard. He has to prove the words he’s saying are true. “Good. You’re beautiful, you know that?”

“Aw, John…” And they kiss again. Nevermind that they’re both pretending that they believe each other. Cynthia knows that there’s more to the story than John’s letting on, and John knows she doesn’t believe him. She gives a last, small smile before stepping out of the car. _Bye John, I love you,_ she mouths as the car door closes.

John watches her walk back to her house with tears in his eyes. He bangs on the steering wheel, kicking and screaming and punching as he yells abuse to himself. Why can’t she be good enough for him? Why is he like this? Why did he have to go and fall in love with Paul, of all people? He sits with his head in his hands, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry… _I’m sorry_ …” He whispers, not sure who he’s even apologising to. “I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve _anyone_.”

He doesn’t know how to get rid of this guilt that weighs heavy on his shoulders. No priest can relive him of these sins he has committed, dragging on his ankles like ball and chains. He’s trapped by lust, greed and wrath - they choke and wound him, giving him a poison tongue, wide eyes, grabbing hands, promising him everything he needs before taking it all away.

He’s always thought the church was bullshit; he doesn’t need a god to tell him that he’s doing everything wrong.

He wipes the tears from his eyes. Is there any ending in which he’ll be happy without having hurt almost everyone around him?

He almost doesn't want to know the answer.

***

Cynthia sits in her darkened bedroom, staring at the wall.

For a little while now she’d been suspicious of John. He’d been acting so secretive, cancelling plans to do other things, hardly noticing her when they were together… in the back her mind she’d thought that he must be cheating on her.

But this was _John,_ who wrote her pages of love letters when he was away, who bought her all the gifts her heart desired (or all the gifts his wallet could afford), who told her she was beautiful, amazing, brilliant, the most wonderful girl in the world. So she’d pushed her fears aside, deciding to go on as though nothing was wrong, as she often did. She loved him. She _trusted_ him.

And then that night had happened. She watched as John, drunk and giggling like a schoolboy, had kissed Paul on the cheek. She saw the way their eyes both lit up, how John stared at Paul like the entire world had ceased to exist, how his cheeks flushed and his smile widened, how reluctantly they both pulled away. It was a reaction she hadn’t gotten from him for months. There was something so powerful and captivating about the energy between them - it pulled her in and forced her to look. It radiated off of them, infecting everyone around them. Suddenly something had clicked in her brain. _It’s Paul._

Cynthia doesn’t want to believe it. She knows that John might have done it with a girl or two back in Hamburg, but she’d already made her peace with it. He’d proved his faithfulness. She knew that the streets of Hamburg easily tempted randy young sinners such as him, restless with its promises of love, sex and other drugs. Cheating, however… proper, real cheating, the illicit love affair type, the heartbreaking, door-slamming, fate-tempting, hushed moans and concealed letters type - she can’t understand it. She can’t accept it. Especially not with Paul.

Her mind runs wild with questions. What does Paul have that she doesn’t? Why did John choose Paul over her? Is he… queer? Did he ever really have feelings for her? And even if he did, does he still now? And can she still be with him, after it all? She picks up the photograph of him she has framed on her bedside table. It’s a shot taken of him back in Hamburg that he mailed to her along with one of his many love letters.

She doesn’t want to abandon John. She still loves him. He seems to still love her, even if it’s not in the way he once did. But she can she really stay with him if she knows that he’s doing everything (and more) with someone else?

Can she really kiss a mouth that someone else is kissing, touch a body someone else is touching? Can she hear him promise his love for her knowing those same words are said for someone else?

She puts the frame face down.

***

The Beatles will be back in London soon. Performances, appearances, interviews, meetings, they’ll be doing all of it and more. So as they’re advised by Brian, “Use up your freedom whilst you still can.”

It does feel a bit like that. Their fame is only growing, and John can’t help but notice the number of wide eyes and open mouths every time he walks down a street, the increasing legion of fans who beg for his autograph and scream their declarations of love. He knows he only has a few months at best before he might not be able to go out at all. He feels like a prisoner on death row, counting down the days until he’ll lose the little independence he has left.

He decides to go to some local club, get a drink and listen to whatever mediocre band is playing. It’s boring, but he craves boring. Boring means normalcy, and he hasn’t had much of that at all.

He takes a seat at the back of the club, lounging in his chair and tapping the table absentmindedly, letting the music wash over him. The band isn’t half bad, although it’s obvious they’re beginners. He recognises that same nervous excitement that he once had back when he’d play in clubs like these.

He surveys the room, looking to see if there's anyone that he knows. A young couple sitting up the front catch his eye, cuddling up to each other and sharing drinks. He frowns and strains his eyes to get a better look. _That looks kind of like…_

It’s Cynthia. Under the arm of some sandy-haired bloke. He feels a flash of anger strike him. What’s she doing with some other guy? As if she can feel his sullen presence she turns around.

Their eyes meet, staring each other down.

It’s an unspoken proposal - _I’ll let you do whatever you want with Paul, you let me do what I want with other guys_. _Just don't cause a scene._

He knows he deserves it. If she has to deal with him and Paul, he can deal with this.

John gives her a quick nod, sealing this agreement - _Fine, do what you like_ \- and leaves the bar. He feels sick. Disgusted with himself, mostly.

As he climbs up the stairs, he feels the thorny green vines of envy slither up his legs and grab his arms, pulling him back into the confines of the club. He wants to go back down and punch the guy right in the face. That’s _his girl_.

 _You don't deserve her_ , he reminds himself. _You don't deserve anyone._

So he leaves. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm publishing this chapter pretty early since I'm going away for a little while and won't probably have time to write, so excuse the random posting. Hope you enjoy this chapter, kudos/comments are appreciated as always.

The party is full, packed with elite artists and musicians from all across the globe. Waiters swan in and out of the crowds, offering drinks and appetizers. Various abstract art adorns the walls, the room filled with fashion from designers he doesn’t know and people who wouldn’t give him the time of day.

What was the point of coming back to London again?

John leans idly against the wall, staring across the room. He watches as Paul offers some bird a dance, all wide smiles and doe eyes as holds out his hand to her. She looks positively ecstatic, glancing around for some sleazy photographer to take a candid shot so she can prove she danced with Paul Mccartney.

Everything is so fake. Perhaps the designer clothes these celebrities wear are real, but the people and their over-inflated egos certainly aren’t. John sees it in every feigned smile, every cry of ‘I love your work! You’re _so innovative_ ’, every loose hug he receives. He knows it’s all an act, that most of these people would throw him under the bus for 15 more minutes of fame. They look at him like he’s come straight from the slums, and he snarls right back.

“Fun party, huh?” George wanders next to him, beer in hand. John slumps back against the wall. He rolls his eyes. “Christ, no. As if I want to hang around with these rich tossers.” George laughs. “S’bit different to the parties we used to go to, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, before all this Beatlemania bullshit.” He grumbles. “Before we had to go to these pretentious art parties.” He remembers the parties they used to throw back in Hamburg, where he could get pissed and dance with anyone he wanted, and no journalists would publish it in the magazines the next day. He misses the feel of the worn-out leather jackets and the Elvis-style haircuts, long before they had to wear the Beatle uniform of suits and moptops.

John points lazily at Paul, now swaying across the dance floor with his new partner. “Pathetic, innit?”

George frowns. “What’dya mean?”

“Him trying to impress these cheap girls, just like he always does. Just putting on a show so he can screw her later.”

George smiles. “C’mon John. Don’t be a dick, it’s not as if you haven’t done the exact same thing.”

And it’s true. He’s put on phoney smiles and unrelenting charm just to get with a girl hundreds of times before, the rational part of his brain knows it. He can’t get upset at Paul for doing the pulling the same gimmick he practically invented. Wasn’t he just chatting up someone before this stupid party started?

He feels the bitter resentment creep up on him. Jealousy festers deep inside of him, waiting for moments like these to take over.

Sometimes he can stop himself. This time he refuses, storming over to them before George can stop him.

They spot John striding across the room. Paul frowns, clearly aware of the storm brewing inside John. The girl, filled with naivety, doesn’t pick up on this. She looks overjoyed; able to meet not one but _two_ Beatles.

“What’re you doing here?” Paul looks wary. He’s walking on eggshells. “We’re dancing!”

“Oh, how wonderful!” John sneers, mimicking the girl's hyper-enthusiastic tone. He turns to Paul. “And have you succeeded in charming your way into her skirt yet?” The girl gasps, her cheeks flushing. Paul steps in front of her, shielding her from the vicious tongue of John Lennon. “John, whatever fucking game you’re playing, you need to stop.”

He can see in the corner of his eye that a crowd is forming to watch this increasingly tense situation unfold. Without looking he knows there’ll be a group of journalists too, hungry for lengthy articles to print in their tabloids. A fight between two Beatles - it’s too juicy for these seedy writers not to put in their sensationalist magazines. They’ll probably title it _‘A lovers quarrel’_ too, just to really grind his gears, and Paul will get the same way he always does. _‘They know John, or they’ll figure it out soon enough’._ They’ll get right back onto the fight they’ve been having for months.

It’s always been risky, this little affair. But now they’re household names, known by every teenage girl. They’d lose everything - the fame, the money, the status. And he knows that starting a fight won’t help anything.

But John Lennon doesn’t back down from fights. He stares at Paul with fiery eyes. He puts on a sickening smile and turns to the bird again.“Too bad you don’t have a cock, love. This one likes it up the arse, don’tcha Paulie?” He says, his words coated with poison.

Before he can see either of their reactions, Paul’s fist connects with his jaw, sending him staggering backwards. Gasps fill the room. John pounces on him, scrambling to get in a hit as he’s pulled backwards. He yells the worst things he knows how to say, his anger only fueled by Paul’s dignified glare compared to his own state of unbridled rage. He’s dragged away before he can say anything more incriminating, kicking and screaming the whole way out.

The doors slam shut and he’s thrown to the ground.“Lennon, what the everliving _fuck_ where you doing in there?” He realises it’s George, berating him now that he’s away from the eyes of the world. “You can’t go around picking fights, especially not with band members! We’ve all worked too fucking hard for you to drag us down because of some little fight with Paul!”

John pushes George backwards. His voice is hoarse from screaming and choked with tears.“You don’t get it! You don’t know what’s going on with me and Paul, so don’t fucking pretend like you do!”

George shakes his head. “I know that you and Paul have… _something_ going on.”

His defence mechanisms kick in again. “You don’t know shit!”

“John… look, it’s fine. I really don’t care what you do in your spare time, but… well, just because it didn’t matter back in Hamburg, and just ‘cause it doesn’t matter to the band, doesn’t mean it won’t matter to the rest of the world. You know you can’t be doing something like this, not now.”

He stays silent, refusing to confirm or deny anything. George softens slightly. “Whatever’s happening between you… is it really worth losing all this? Is Paul really worth all that?”

John wants to say no, it’s not. He wants to say that Paul is just a fling, that he’d never put his fame and success on the line, or jeopardise he and Paul’s relationship.

He knows that none of that is true.

He’d easily give up the fame and the fortune for a chance to spend his life with Paul. He’d trade the screaming teenage girls in heartbeat.

If there was a way to make him stop feeling this way, he’d do it. He wishes that he’d stop loving Paul so desperately, so forcefully, so violently. It’s nothing compared to the teen-crush romances he’s had in the past. It’s a love that makes John want to tackle Paul to the ground and kiss him until the feeling of his touch is scorched on his skin, the memory engraved in his mind and the kiss burned on his lips. When he was fighting with Paul he didn’t know whether he was going to kiss him or kill him (and some part of him wanted both), and it’s these vicious and uncontrollable feelings that scare him most.

He doesn’t know what to do with this love - it burns too brightly. It’s the sun, and he is Icarus, flying with his wings made of wax. He wants to fly directly into it, but the closer he gets, the more his wings melt.

He wonders when he’s going to finally fall.

John always thought love was a choice. He could choose who he loved, what he did with them. The people he slept with and dated were simply distractions, or prizes to be won, or the perfect girlfriend to take home to impress Mimi. This love is something different altogether. There’s no choice - he didn’t choose to love Paul this way.

He almost doesn’t want it to stop.

So yes, maybe Paul is worth it.

He’ll let his wings melt if he has to. Just so long as he can fly to the sun, see it once before he falls. In the back of his head, he knows that there may not be a future for him and Paul. But there is a now, and he’s not going to waste it.

“Well? Mate, please be reasonable. For all of our sakes, ‘cause I’m not dragging you out of any more fights.”

John cracks a half-hearted smile. “I won’t go punching band members and picking fights with people.” George ruffles his hair. “Go talk to Paul, yeah?”

“…Yeah.” He looks up at the ceiling. The last thing he wants to do is talk to Paul, because even he has no idea what he’ll do when he sees him. He knows he has to fix things, but he’s not sure if he’s capable of doing that without kissing Paul, punching him out, or bursting into tears. He might even do all three.

“Are you coming back into the party?” John sighs. “No fucking way.”

“Alright, I’ll tell Brian to go call a cab or something.” George wanders back into the party, leaving John out in the hallway. He pauses just before he disappears inside.

“M’not kidding mate, you better talk to Paul.”

“Yes, christ! ‘Course I will.” George, still looking unconvinced, finally shuts the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, and so is the angst ;). In case you haven't already gathered there's going to be a lot of angst in this fic. I will write in some fluff/smut at some point! Just gotta put way too much angst in first. Hope you like the fic, kudos/comments are appreciated blah blah, if you have anything you want to see/anything you liked leave it below. ★★★

As it turns out, time is not on his side. Before he can even have a chance to see Paul they’re scheduled for another press conference to promote their new album.  
  
John hates these press conferences with a burning passion. He hates reporters and journalists in general - a big crowded room full of them asking him asking the most invasive, manipulative questions they can just so they can print some big expose on him makes him want to stab his eyes out with toothpicks. But he knows this one will be worse. It’ll inevitably become apparent that he and Paul aren’t on good terms when they aren’t cracking their witty jokes, when they’re refusing to even look at each other. The reporters will have a field day coming up with various conspiracies as to why. Plus, they’ve probably already written plenty about the fight that had happened the night before. No matter what he does or says, he knows his reputation is going to take a hit.

When did his private life and his public life bleed so heavily into each other? John feels as though he’s living in a glasshouse, where everything he says or does will be picked up by reporters sooner or later. He mulls it over when he’s woken up the next morning before his internal monologue is cut short by the phone ringing.

It’s either the press or Brian. He’s too hungover and depressed to deal with either of them. He picks up the phone and tries to not think about strangling himself with the phone cord.

“John Lennon speaking. To what do I owe the _absolute pleasure_ of this call.” He mumbles.

It’s Brian, playing the role of the reprimanding mother and cleanup crew as always. It takes him all of six seconds to start yelling. “Do you have any idea how much this could impact your image? No, I don’t care what trivial argument you and Paul had going on, you two should know better, do you even care? As your manager-”

John can't be bothered to fight it or try and argue his side anymore. “Look Eppy, I’m sorry, I screwed up. I’ll try and fix things with Paul, yeah? I’ll fix this.”  
  
And apparently that’s good enough for Brian, because he just gives a defeated sigh and hangs up the phone.  
  
Now he’s tasked with sitting through an entire press conference with Paul barely on speaking terms with him, and reporters who will probably have more questions than he has answers. He drags himself over to the dingy hotel mirror, brushing his hair down into the signature Beatle haircut.  
  
“Don’t screw this up.” He whispers. He’s not sure if he can keep that promise.  
  
***  
  
The press conference seems as terrible as expected. The room is hot and stuffy, swarming with photographers and reporters with their pens and cameras at the ready. Paul decides to sit at the opposite end from John. He's refusing to even meet John's gaze - he instead opts for more fake smiles for the camera. John slouches back in his seat. He mentally runs through the list of acceptable things he can say. After the little ‘incident’ none of them, but especially not him or Paul, can give people any reason to think that something is wrong. So as long as he can give them a pleasant grin and stick to the script, things will go fine. He hopes.  
  
And at first, it does. The questions are simple and mostly about their new albums and their music (and occasionally their personal lives). He can easily bullshit his way through it with the same answers he always gives and the odd joke. It seems as though it’ll be more boring than anything, and he can handle a little boredom.  
  
He finds himself thinking about what he’s going to say to Paul afterwards, bored by the repetitive questions. John gives him a quick glance. He’s telling some story about the making of the album - it may only be half true, but it has the room in stitches. _Cocky bastard_ , he thinks, knowing full well that’s a title he’s held numerous times himself.

He wants to hate Paul, hate him in all his smug, pretty-boy, crowd-pleasing glory. He does hate him, doesn’t he? He hates that Paul has this effect on him. He hates being out of control. He hates that Paul is pretending like he doesn’t exist. But it’s so, _so_ hard to look at Paul laughing away and hate him.

So he hates Paul for that too.

He’s spiralling, trapped in his own thoughts. He can’t think about anything else, can’t see anything else, can’t hear anything else other than Paul. He drums his fingers on the table. _Pull it together. Stop thinking about him._ He’s finally pulled out of his trance by the next question asked.

“So, John, there’s been some reports of a fight between you and Paul happening the other night at a party you attended? Could you tell us what happened?”

For a moment John just stares. The reporter's eyes go straight to him, the cameras pointed directly at his face. Should he fervently deny it, brush it off, avoid the question with a well-timed joke? Before a single word can come out of his mouth Paul swoops in to smoothly answer the question.  
  
“Well, y’know, it’s been pretty high tensions, as it always is around the time of an album release, and we’d probably all had a bit too much to drink, so we may have gotten a little heated at each other,” Paul smiles at this, acting as though it’s all just another funny anecdote. “But we’re all fine now.”  
  
The reporters, however, don’t give up on a good story that easily. “I’ve heard that it was quite serious. Apparently there was physical fighting and such... so what really happened?”  
  
“It was hardly physical, no, that's definitely some exaggeration. I don’t even remember what it was about, it was probably just some stupid thing that got thrown out of proportion, you know how it is." Paul turns to him for the first time during the entire press conference. "Right, John?”

“Y'know, I didn’t know you lot were a bunch of sleazy tabloid magazines lookin’ for some gossip. Why don’t you mind your own damn business, and _shut the hell up_.” John snaps. The room goes deadly silent. He can hear George mumbling to Ringo under his breath. “ _Shit…_ ”

He storms out. He’s screwed up yet again, and he’s not going to stick around to see the look on the reporter’s face.

***

“John! John, get the hell back here!”

He has no idea why Paul, of all people, has decided to be the one to follow him out here. He can hear him screaming in the background, his footsteps thudding heavily on the ground. It’s cute Paul thinks he’s going to stop.

All he really wants is a moment of peace. Every waking hour there are people around, people he needs to entertain, spend time with, talk to. At first it was heaven, all this attention - now he feels like he’s being suffocated. He's constantly being watched and looked at. He needs a moment to actually breathe.

But Paul is _relentless_. He’ll keep screaming until his voice is hoarse and John’s ears are bleeding. John finally turns around. “What do you want?”

“What do you think you were doing back there? Speaking to the reporters like that? Goddamnit John, are you actually trying to make things worse? You’re so-”

He’s so tired of hearing everyone yell at him. He can’t do anything right, not anymore. “Listen! Will you shut up for a second? I can’t give you a fucking apology if you keep yelling!”

Paul goes silent. It’s the perfect moment for John to actually fix something. He racks his brain, trying to think of what to say.

“Look… I’m sorry. I made a mistake…”

“Yeah, you made a mistake. In fact, it seems like all you do these days is make fucking mistakes. Christ, d’ya want to lose everything? Is this why you keep pulling these stupid stunts? I’m sick and tired of cleaning up after your mess, y’know that Lennon? You just had to go cause a scene, like you always do. You can’t ever keep your bloody mouth shut!”  
  
“So it’s all my fault, then? Let’s just forget that you punched me in the face, shall we? M’not the only problem here!”  
  
“And what was I supposed to do? Pretend like the shit you were saying was no big deal? You can’t say stuff like that!” Paul stares at him, furious and bitter. “I don’t get you John, I really fucking don’t. You went on and on about us taking a break, but when I started dating anyone else you couldn’t handle it. You flirt with every decent looking person you see, but when I even talk to some girl you get jealous and you start a fight over nothing. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of you keeping me in this purgatory where I can’t get anything from you and I’m not allowed to get anything from anyone else. I’m not one of your idiot groupies, you can’t string me along until someone better arrives!” Paul turns to leave. John grabs onto his arm desperately.  
  
“Wait! Fuck, I… I want you so much, I feel like I’m going insane. It hurts, it physically hurts, every time I see you, from how much I… shit, Paul, if you asked me to never talk to anyone else again, I would. And I don’t-”  
  
“You’re a fucking liar. Don’t go on this great big tangent about how I’m the _only one you love, baby, they don’t mean anything to me, you’re my one and only, I love you, can we shag now?_ You think I don’t know you probably give Cynthia that same speech every night after you come back from my place? You’re full of shit.”

Something inside him snaps. He’s so furious, and it’s swallowing him whole. Anger and fear erupts inside him, screaming at him to do something, anything, even if he knows it’s wrong. He pushes Paul up against the chipped brick wall like he wants him to go right through it. He can’t bear it anymore. It’s too much.

As if by some invisible force John lurches forwards. He kisses Paul with burning desperation. Paul obliges for a second, giving John the high he needs.

Then he pulls away.  
  
“No. We’re not doing this anymore.”  
  
John wipes his mouth. His heart is pounding in his ears. Sweat beads across his forehead. “What? What the hell do you mean?”  
  
“We need to take a break. This clearly isn’t working. We just… we keep making everything worse. No, we can’t do this anymore.”

“That’s what… that’s what you said three weeks ago. You can’t seriously-”

“This time I actually mean it.”

John stumbles backwards. He jabs his finger at Paul in accusation, fighting back tears. “Can’t you see what you’re doing to me? It’s been three weeks, _three fucking weeks_ without you, and I’m a mess! You can’t leave me!”

“You don’t own me, John! You treat everyone like your personal property, like we’re just there to amuse you. We’re not. If all you just want to do is play with people until you get bored with them, I suggest you buy a goddamn baby doll.” And with that, Paul stalks back into the building.

"Fuck. Fuck! _Jesus fuckin' christ_!" He screams, kicking the brick wall. 

But no one can hear him. He's all alone, just like he wanted. 

So why does he feel even more suffocated? Why can't he breathe? 

He doesn't even know what he wants anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi loves! Here's a new chapter for you, full of angst (I swear there's cute stuff coming!!!). Enjoy!

He’s locked himself in his hotel room. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Some part of him knows that he’s being childish, that he should try and patch things up as best he can because he’s managed to almost wreck everything multiple times in the past week. Another part of him is telling him that he’s fucked everything up _again_ , that he’s a screw-up and a failure, that he should just stay in this hotel room forever.

All John really wants is for someone to sit him down and tell him everything will be okay, no matter how much he knows it’s not true.

He's got that feeling again. That feeling of desperation and fear and pain, that feeling that everything is spiralling out of control and coming to a devastating, disastrous end. He can't shake it; this impending sense of doom that seems to hang over him with its daunting presence.

He's so used to having the upper hand in every situation. No matter how bad things got, he knew that with some planning, charm and cunning he'd manage to get out mostly unscathed. Here he feels helpless - lying in a grave he dug for himself. 

It's that feeling when Julia died, and he had no way of going back and pushing her out of the way of the truck. It's when Stuart died, and no amount of anger and fear could stop it from happening. It's when his dad left, long before he was old enough to register what was happening. It's the agony of knowing that you're unable to do anything but watch everything unfold and hope that you can fix it once it's over.

It's like when he was back in Hamburg, a week after playing his first show. A mix of arrogance, frustration and ego had led him to do and say things that the onlookers hadn't exactly appreciated.

So they kicked the shit out of him for it.

He still remembers it with excruciating intensity. They threw him to the ground, kicking him over and over until his mouth tasted like blood and his body ached. They yelled abuse at him in a mix of German and English, and then they beat him up some more.  
  
After what felt like an eternity they’d finally gotten sick of it and had left, leaving him curled up on the ground, gasping for air. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes were watering and his body was bleeding. He felt like he was drowning, sinking lower and lower as he waited for everything to dissolve to black. He could almost feel his soul escaping out of his body, pulling away from him. He truly thought he might die in that little alleyway, alone in a foreign country dying in a way that to him, was weak. Not tragic enough to give him a heroic legacy. Not painless enough to comfort those around him. Not interesting enough to make his story a public phenomenon. _I’m going to die a nobody_ , he kept thinking.

_I’m not ready…_

There was so much he still had to do. Things he didn’t even realise he wanted to do until there was a possibility he wouldn’t get to do them at all. He was faced with the prospect of death, of there being a world without him in it, and it was utterly terrifying. _  
_  
That’s when Paul had appeared above him. He was crying, shaking John awake and dragging him back into the Bambi Kino, yelling for help. Paul had stitched up his wounds while he sat on the bathroom floor and choked back tears.  
  
“You’re my hero.” John had mumbled. The words seemed to fall from his mouth long before he could even realise what he was saying. Because he was just so damn happy that he wasn’t going to die, and it was Paul who had saved him.  
  
“I’m just Paul.”  
  
“That’s good enough.” Perhaps it was the elation of knowing this wasn't the end for him. Maybe he didn't know how else to say thank you. He couldn't explain it, the urge he suddenly felt, but he realised that whatever happened after he did it couldn't be any worse than what he'd just experienced. So he grabbed Paul by the collar and he kissed him.

He could write pages and pages about how euphoric it had felt, how he’d suddenly realised hundreds of things about himself all at once, and how all his pain and anger seemed to melt away. He wanted to tell Paul all of this; he was so dazed that when they finally broke apart he couldn’t say any of it.

“Sorry… I think I got blood in your mouth.” Paul just shook his head, spat the blood out into the sink, and kissed him back.

 _I miss him._

He needs Paul again - only this time, Paul won't come and rescue him.

_I should call him._

He most definitely shouldn’t. Paul probably won’t even pick up the phone, let alone listen once he realises who’s speaking.

But he needs to make his case. He wants to regain some control in his life. He needs someone to listen to him, to understand what he’s thinking.

He reaches over the phone on the bedside table and dials the number.

_Please pick up, please pick up…_

John holds the phone with shaking hands, praying to every god he knows that finally something will go right for him. He listens to the ringing with bated breath.

“Hello?”

“Paul, it’s John. I need to-”

He can hear Paul sigh heavily. “Piss off. I don’t want to speak to you.”

“No, _no_ , you can’t hang up, please! Just… I just need five minutes of your time. C’mon Macca, please?”

On the other end of the line, Paul stands still, wishing that John had never called him in the first place. He knows he shouldn’t humour John. He knows this will most likely end in tears, and he knows that they shouldn’t be talking to each other. They just need space. Well, he needs space. John still hasn’t seemed to quench his undying thirst for attention.

He also knows that John won't give him any peace until he's allowed to talk. “Fine. Five minutes.”

John swallows the lump in his throat. “I… uh… I’ve been behaving like shit towards you, and I know that, but it’s- this is really fucking shit. You've left me with a shitty deal. I miss you like hell, and I can’t make it stop. It won't go away. And you won't even speak to me! God, every fucking minute you’re _here_ , in my mind, and I can’t- it’s just- I don't know. How the hell am I supposed to move on? But you deserve someone who isn’t a dickhead. I don’t deserve shit… but I want you _so much_.” His voice cracks at the last sentence.

He can hear the pity creep into Paul’s voice. He doesn’t want Paul's pity. “No, love… don’t do this to yourself. I’m sorry. You know this won't ever work. There’ll be plenty of others, not just me.”

John shuts his eyes, trying to keep himself under control. “I know, I know, but… they won’t be you. I can't find someone like you.”

He used to think people were replaceable. If you lost someone you could find someone similar, and it’d be like they were never gone. Girlfriends, parents, friends - when they inevitably left him he’d just try and fill the hole they left.

But he’d never found another Julia or another Stuart. For every person that was no longer in his life he could never seem to replicate their presence with someone else. If he loses Paul, he’s never going to get him back.

“Look, I’ll be better, I promise." His voice drops down to a whisper. "Please, let me prove to you that I’m getting better.”

It’s silent. He grips the phone a little tighter. “You’re still my hero, Paulie. Always will be.”

Paul sucks in a breath. Should he really be doing this? He feels like he’s being swayed far too easily. It reminds him somewhat of the one time they’d all gone swimming in the ocean while on tour. A current had pulled him under, almost sweeping him far, far away from his bandmates and the sandy beach. He feels like John might be that current, dragging him away from safety. He's just too blind to see it coming.

Yet he also remembers how John had pulled him up out of the water. He remembers seeing John’s face, staring down on him in concern. It wasn’t John who had dragged him under, it was John who had saved him.

“I’ll take you out for a drink, okay? We can just talk… that’s all.” John pleads.

"Fine... we can talk. It’s, uh… s’easier to talk in person anyway.” It dawns on Paul that if he keeps talking anymore he’s going to start regretting his decision. “Look, I’ve gotta go. I’ll stop by your room tonight.”

He hangs up the phone before he can change his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I took a short break and am now back on my bullshit. And with a new chapter too! Hope you all enjoy :)

“John? It’s me, I, uh… Can I come in?”

Paul stands outside John's door, still not sure how he's not only decided to speak to John, but to follow through with it. He knocks a little louder before tentatively turning the door handle.

The first thing that hits Paul as he swings open the door is the distinct smell of booze. The curtains are drawn, despite it being barely dark outside. He looks down to see John slumped in front of his bed, a beer bottle in hand.

He’s alive. Barely. And Paul hates that this situation is familiar to him. He’s come across John just as depressed and drunk hundreds of times before, and he doesn’t have it in him _not_ to play the concerning mother role.

“Jesus, John, y’alright?” John waves his hand in response as if he’s not even aware who’s speaking to him.

Paul crouches down to his level, wrinkling his nose at the stench of alcohol. He gently lifts John up onto the bed. John leans against him, dropping the bottle onto the floor.

He looks so hollow and empty, like a part of him is missing. Like something is broken that can't be fixed.

“Sorry.” John whispers. Paul laughs quietly. “I thought you said you’d take me out for drinks… looks like you’ve gotten a head start already.”

“Paul, I-” And for a second John looks like he has a spark back in him, looks like he’s going to say something, something that Paul can actually listen to. Another second goes and it’s gone. John breathes out, frustration and anger spreading across his face. His whole body tenses up. John squeezes his hands into fists, his knuckles going pale white.

John is always good at speaking his mind - not that the situation always calls for it. So Paul knows that when he can’t it hurts him. He can see it now - there’s something John wants to articulate, but he _can’t_. The words in him are failing, drying up and no longer spilling out of him like the constant stream they once were.

“D’you remember when we went down to Blackpool, just the two of us, and we nicked that Elvis record?” John mumbles.

Paul nods slowly. It feels like a lifetime ago. They must’ve been around seventeen at the time, right before they escaped Liverpool and found Hamburg. It was a time when they both realised that there was more out there than the dull life of working-class England, and they _needed_ it. They wanted to see the world - or more specifically, they wanted to see America, because America had _seemed_ like the whole world to them.

But Liverpool was a long way away from America. So, they clutched onto the closest thing they could get to the grand American experience: _Elvis Presley_.

Paul still remembers how they’d arrived back at Mendips with flushed faces, hiding the record from Mimi’s hawk-like eyes as they raced into John’s room. John had put it on the record player and pulled Paul up to dance.

 _“This is where we’re heading, Paul! We could be like Elvis, couldn’t we? You’ll be up on the stage next, I guarantee it!”_ John had exclaimed. His face flushed as he'd danced around, filled with an infectious spirit of hope.

_“And you’ll be there with me?”_

_“Course! I’m the leader of the group, aren’t I? No goddamn way would I let you get famous before me.”_ John had grabbed him by the shoulders, swaying back and forth with every touch sending electric shivers down Paul’s spine. And Paul remembers how much he wanted to freeze himself in that moment, to take a photo or draw a picture or something that could capture the pure happiness he was feeling before it was lost forever.

There was a feeling of freedom that Paul hardly ever gets anymore. There were no expectations, no rules, no one to please and no one to disappoint. It was just two boys, seventeen years old and excited about their future, in a world that wasn’t ready for them. A world that would have to mould itself to fit _their_ standards, not the other way around. It was just two boys, dancing around John's tiny bedroom, ignoring Mimi's yelling to turn the music down. Two boys, sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor crooning love songs they’d written, pretending they weren’t looking at each other. Feeling like their music could become more than just words on a page.

Later on they’d kiss in Hamburg and mark the start of a revolution that only they could bring. But back then there was no _musicalculturalsocialpolitcal_ revolution. There was just them, two boys with shitty guitars and stolen Elvis records, starting to become something much bigger than themselves.

It was just them. _It was always them_.

Paul looks across at the man sitting next to him. The man who had dragged him out of the naive little bubble he’d been living in and shown him how much greater life could be. Who had given him the earth-shattering, life-changing revelations he’d needed at the terrible age of seventeen. Who had felt like a missing piece of the puzzle that was Paul’s life. He looks closer at the wiry, hunched up frame next to him, with dark circles under his eyes and the same spattered freckles on his face.

He didn’t think that he needed John. Paul thought that John was a hindrance in his life, stopping him from whatever was coming next. It’s like his heart is a pendulum that swings back and forth indecisively, unable to decide if he needs John or not.

John looks up at him with tired eyes. Eyes that have been searching for years. “I screw up every time, don’t I?” John says quietly. “I don’t own you. I don’t deserve you. But I keep… I keep trying anyway.”

Paul wants to fix him, to save him because Paul feels like he’s the one who has reduced John to this. John looks so _lost_ and scared and Paul wants to make it stop.

He needs John. He needs John in his life, with him.

“I know you want things between us to stop. And I’m not going to pretend that’s what I want too, but… if that’s what you want, then I’ll do it. I promise.” John’s voice is shaky, scared even. As if John is trying to stop himself from the onslaught of emotions he has. “I always want you to be happy. Even if I’ve been acting shitty, that’s all I want. I don’t give a fuck about anyone else. And I’ll try to be better… for you.” John’s eyes drift away as he slumps further into himself.

Paul grips John tightly. “No.”

“What?”

“No, _no_. I thought that’s what I wanted. I thought we needed to be apart, and I thought we were making things worse, but I was wrong. I don’t think I can live without you. I _need_ you.”

“You’re just saying that.” John says bitterly, refusing to let himself believe Paul’s words. “You don’t need me. I don’t even need me.”

“No, _John_. I’m in love with you.” Paul can feel his cheeks burning.

He's finally said the words he's wanted to say since he was seventeen. The words he'd think to himself with every touch and every kiss. The words that he couldn't say up until now. He watches John’s jaw drop, his eyes widening. “You’re serious?”

Paul leans in. “One hundred percent.” He whispers. He kisses John, and he feels like he is seventeen again, so happy and confused and in love, all at once.

He needs John. He needs him more than he could've ever realised.

"I'm sorry." John mumbles, still inches apart from his face. 

Paul pulls him in for another kiss. "It's okay. I love you."

"I love you too."


End file.
